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“Isn’t it a shameThe reaper saidHe is quite alone hereAnd still waiting for youOh I really did fail for the first timeSpoke the fiddler, poor old fiddlerThe fiddler on the greenThe fiddler on the greenIt would be nice…

Take my hand

Just hold my handI’ll take you thereYour pain will go away”

…from ‘Fiddler On The Green’—by Demons and Wizards

Spirit Dances…the chances of creations—combined in shrieks of plenty—night cries—disturbed wings—motions—seen—never noticed—always—a happening of life-death and future days and forever pasts. We are sweet spirits—laughter ‘cross these starry nights— to plunge into another —day—somewhere—someplace—placed in time—at almost—ever-spaces—inside the wind. ‘Tis a good wind—‘tis a good—day. We are ever here—even unknown-to-know—the knowing of Spirit’s speak and notions’ seek. We—live only—along this stretch of sand and—along with the catching up of tide flow—believe the ice and water before and behind us are—our ground—our chapter of seasons lived and written against the sands of shifting grain and the wind. Care for life and alive and steeped in the reality of earth-beat and washed in the eternity of spirit and—even alone—never lonely or forgotten with passing days or endless years of grooved space and the distance between here and there and everywhere.

Rigid to—regularity—then—sweet chaos—systems dynamic—‘dynamo-hum—where’s that dynamo coming from’ (Frank Zappa) —And! Suddenly the regularity of phenomena—no longer measured rigidly—now burst into the probability of theory—though dynamically and universally common—plain-speak and stench—drenched in fractal messages. Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away. Input-Output’ and many layers hide—within? To count those hidden layers do—counters—count the ‘Input’—one or count the Output two or just ‘1’ and ‘0’ then reverse the flow—skip entry once—to find point then—continue while—depending upon the flow—within? Matters not the incline of the incline—matters—those inclined to forward—reach and backward—catch?

Stop—‘Rockets-red-glare-or-bomb-bursts-in-air’…Rubble crawls are not familiar fare…Homes built should never-ever-be destroyed—Life builds—Always builds. Hồ Chí Minh -[ho̞˧˩ t͡ɕi˧˥ mɪŋ˧]–His name a synonym for the ‘Bringer of Light’…Born Nguyễn Sinh Côn—and wishing his country free of the—Imperial tyranny of France—while in an idealistic—dream— sent letters to Woodrow Wilson and Harry Truman (presidents of another Imperialistic Nation—called the world’s greatest Democracy’—to champion Vietnam’s struggle for independence from France—He received no answers…

“If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”―by Ernest Hemingway…

Survival’s portion—portioned and scattered across understanding simplicity—and the variances in relativity—either linguistically determined—or silenced by rain—loud—gentle beginnings or the whispers of fire-fly wings and lighting…Wait! Eyes—tightly closed—to hear thunder—rolling across separated skies—as unseen flashes—knight the ocean—and crashes boom into the silent space—between raindrops and life…‘Plant your flag on—truth…’ Science eternally dances with superstition…Once and often either—momentarily wins something-of-else or another choice-to-follow…Crossroads to matter—chances to spark—and destiny always flirts with other up-and-about—perhaps…Real Sea—we’ll see—and another and another—of water-ships and places far away…This is here and between landings another beach—reach and as quickly discovered then thrown away…Dragging the lines of surf’s fall and rise—as waves dash high into moonless sky and crash along miles of sand and shoreline. Sea inhale and exhale and breathe again and time marks nothing—when endless and everlasting.

A World where women can walk in day/night safety and men do not know a word called ‘war’…Where love is love and force is Never …Wherever—Whatever—and never is heaven or hell…A place where life is belonging and life is good everyday…Heaven or Luck… No? We create worlds—we maintain worlds and we love our children. So! Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away. So! Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away…OK?

There and perched high on dream-side—at flips of mind-sigh—we move across—this universe so fine. Alive and gone and alive and gone—‘til counting-time catches us with mind-sides swirl—sight of mind-light bright—brings another way to see…And Oh! What a wave to see—to be—to know and again to have seen. Yes! To have seen—so it seems and to see it all through Love! Again…

Sighted! Righted to see the shadows’ tuck—inside textures—ghosts and inside shadows—inside—reflected swirls of star light—and—lighted night. Is it true that—if we build a shelving unit—created with shelves—structurally made to sustain—heavier weights—than the object we just purchased—should we—avoid putting that object on that unit? Is a waste of strength practical?

Steel Riders pause by waterside as tides of water—kiss shoreline—wave length along with one hundred sounds—as gulls ride the dips of above and around piers of ruined wood and splintered ages where once—Calimesa City stood—and tide changes—mattered to boat anchored and ships sailing against the evening lines. The water’s edge and skies of blue and pink and red and orange and yellow—as earth spin sets sunlight to softness and twinkles of sky-lighted-canvas—sheets the blue-gray into darkness and stars light the sailor’s way along the caverns of space and place and the race of time.

These are the salty ways of salted sea and flecks of foam scatter—along shore-sided shifts of sand from wet-to-dry and dune rise—above and beyond watered edges—before ruined boardwalks remind-nothing-of- something—once savored and watched and known by forgotten ones—once upright writers of the times—and the sounds of ‘days of a future’s past.’ Still! We all cross spaces along these places of—the races in time gathered—and night ships crossing heaven’s ragged ridges…

Slaves of speed—those things filling corners of—house scatter and caves overwhelmed by many needs— requiring covers to crawl into and away from storm’s wrath—drenched in sweat and rain and dried with winds of howling sounds and lighted by the flash of light streams—traced along the edges of cloud swirl and twirl and reflected from a trillion eyes shining bright into those nights of storm and clutter—and later—mist lifts from a million places outside caves and houses and homes now forgotten and almost gone.

We do not summon gentle love…It whispers to our spirits—and touches us beyond the flesh of resistance and routes of layers and lives inside walls too high to be climbed or under or around or about the shouts of daily doubts and flight. Love heart touches and reaches—into body frail and those impossible attempts to hide among thrones of thorns and weary costs already paid and already spent. Listen—just listen. And! Love reminds us of the equality of equals—woman and man and the spirits of all trapped and—living sentient sentences of life inside body—minding body.

“Not everything that can be counted really counts, and not everything that counts can be reallycounted“… Albert Einstein.

“The moving power of mathematical invention is not reasoning, but imagination.”… A De Morgan

“Street wise from the boulevard Jesus only knows that she tries too hard She’s only tryin’ to keep the sky from fallin’

Any man who says it’s Heaven and Hell Prob’ly got somethin’ useless to sell You ask me if I’m saved, but what’s it to ya?” from ‘Saving Grace’ by Erik Francis Schrody

Life is not a resource. Life is being…Trees—fish—animals—reptilian alive—life. Since life is being—then everything on this precious earth and in our sweet oceans—lakes and rivers are—beings. We too are members of this stream—our existence and freedom and balance are interlocked—in these motions and rhythms and rhymes. Dependents we are and we rejoice in the music of nature’s symphony and universal spirit-speak.

Life is not a resource. Forests are not board-feet. Our precious animals are alive and well and multiplying within circle-life and when undisturbed—are balance and the harmony of earth twirl and whirl across space—required for survival and never for—the commercial aggravation of money changers and the idiocy of gain. Precious must be protected—by wise beings—removed from destruction and worshiped as our only method to survive future days and darkest nights. Unless! Flash we stop and our carbon-based trickle ceases equal value and determination.

Life is not a resource. When forest covered this place—land once stripped is now concrete jungles and scattered sky-buildings layered from portions of little to—too much. Resource-speak twisted this place into battlefields and crime and punishment and the damage of civilization and the end of peace. Nations began with ‘battle-cries of freedom’ and the blood of poor laborers and slaves—created hope for many and freedom for—few. Life is not created—to be purchased or sold.

Life is not a resource. The middle of an Eastern portion of a world spinning across a universe of space and time and landfall and splendor—has a determination created by a Western ideology so foreign and devoid of principle that Sociocide is a study in collateral damage and a ‘resourceful’ necessity. Egypt—Palestine—Lebanon—Syria—Iraq—Iran and…Presently; these wars are battles of imbalance created by this terror from the West. Someday soon—this will pass…Life is sacred and family is love!

Life is not a resource—and Colonialism is the destruction of Society. Western civilization believes life is resource. However; life is interlocked and dependent and precious. Resource is another tool for wealth creation and the capitalization of destruction. Until decisions of an illogical accumulation of life as resources cease, the world will gain nothing and the drones of war will continue forever.

Life is not a resource. May we all become beings of balance and love? Remember we are creations of creative folk—never alone. We are spirits and joined to every living thing—seen and not observed. We are animals and fish and reptiles and trees and flowers and skies and moons and suns and stars and planets across many miles inside universes of many miles.

Are we the builders of grand places and the ancients of straw homes in tomorrow’s futures? Often music calls spirits to dance ‘round a late night fire somewhere in distant time—We began before the stars—And together we melt into the mist…

Fire and shadows cross a sky—Color moon of blood and gold—Simple songs and thudding drum—Stars light up another home—We move by wind across this place—In sunlight waves and dancing twists—Of silver rain and stretching space—Ship’s gentle streaks in skies of grace—With muted voice and silent rooms of—Blood touched throat and emptied tombs—Bridge walked toward and skylight’s scream—By taking flight and falling dream—Warming suns of days ago—With salted mist and taste of tongue—Lights of passion—times of rain—Wolf cries shout of sands and home—Across this universal stretch—Window shine in candle’s light—And let us touch another peace—Of safety sleep and lover’s reach.

Never back turn on the notions that eternal spirits are always in motions—of the—been there and maybe already done that—a couple of times—maybe—eh?

Not games of ‘I’— not a place of mine or yours—but of ours-our-lives—of we and us—scattered across the Universal Find—of fine places to live and to die and to again—begin—living clusters—angel songs—along the rhythm and rhyme of time…We do not need ‘Biblical Scourges’ and ‘Days End’ prophecies to end—our own ending-beginning—we are able to fulfill demises—devised by devices—ourselves…No great Lighting Gods or Evil Hosts required.

‘People Free’ create the all-of-best creations. Priceless-Plunder-Shares—shared by the creators of creation’s best are not gifts—are creations deserved—expected—rejected—accepted and built again—improved—imported—exported and to the creators—People Free…’Wage-Slaves’ do—own the creations of their creation—grown from their lands—harvested by their sweat and irrigated by their tears.

Searching now as then and again in a forever reach of reaches—stretchers—stretching toward silver tongues and voices of gold—still—wondering why—maintain societies’ hierarchy—when social voices— many sounds of poverty silent—when greed so deafens—growls of hunger and the pleas of need…Listen! Our streets vibrate with good life—sweet blood and the strength of poverty covering America…’Feed my People’—strong words—weak wills to solve and still solutions are apparent and ready to use for many willing to share and to simply end greed. And! Please remember that a Police State is only allowed when governments—desire only—to protect and maintain—Societies’ Hierarchy—and be damn the People…The wealthy have forgotten with whom they once danced—and from where their worth began—developed and multiplied…

Why are a ‘force’ of ‘Police’ quickly—becoming the ‘Enemy’ of the people? America is awash with Swat Teams—Tanks and ‘Copters and Drones and—Snipers—Outsiders—Insiders—to Gas and Spray and Kill and Arrest and Convict and React—not Pro-Act…We are all people-of-people not Corporations-of-Departments—or Police-folk-to-combat-People-folk…We are neighborhoods—we are parts-of-parts—within-little-parts. The American Constitution—while written by rich-white-men—teases the People with words of Equality—Liberty—High Hopes and People—Strength: And! Still—’once upon a midnight dream’ we are just ‘Us’—little parts-within-ourselves and still unincorporated…Just Together!

In his new book, ‘Rise of the Warrior Cop’, journalist Radley Balko illustrates that the militarization of police departments developed—several decades before 9/11. He mentions—a few appropriate applications of modern—tactics and weaponry—obscure—routine use—each day—against U.S. citizens—accused of ordinary crimes, in ways that would have been repugnant to the nation’s founders. “To say a military tactic is legal, or even effective, is not to say it is wise or moral in every instance,” the president noted in his recent speech. “For the same human progress that gives us the technology to strike half a world away also demands the discipline to constrain that power—or risk abusing it.”

Evolve with us—from what ‘we-be’ into the may happen places of ‘second-next’—Once written—‘pretty words’ from ‘pretty-people’—pontifications all— an admonition regarding the dangers of armed and standing government forces—to people today—and for us—totally—acceptable for armed government storm agents—all dressed in garbs of armor and battle to rape—pillage—and plunder—private places in night’s ‘middling safety’—not to apprehend violent fugitives or thwart terrorist attacks, but to Enforce laws against nonviolent, consensual activities? Happens how and now and when and everywhere and why?

Protest and Speech Politic—twirls now toward the swirls of grenades that flash and crying sprays and RoboCops of ‘all-dressed up’—and still—the You and I of—Us against each-other…We were a place where laws were enforced by us without ‘dress-up’ and the notions of ‘bodily harm’ or the invasions of street-to-street—places with threats of harm by ‘other eyes’ often conditioned to see our neighborhoods and us (‘we the people’) as their Enemy…People-Person-You and I—We still are US…The New York Times reports; “according to Pentagon data, police departments have received tens of thousands of machine guns; nearly 200,000 ammunition magazines; thousands of pieces of camouflage and night-vision equipment; and hundreds of silencers, armored cars and aircraft.” Why?

“The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.On their blotter of fog the treesSeem a botanical drawing –Memories growing, ring on ring,A series of weddings.Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,Truer than women,They seed so effortlessly!Tasting the winds, that are footless,Waist-deep in history –Full of wings, other worldliness.In this, they are Ledas.O mother of leaves and sweetnessWho are these pietàs?The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but chasing nothing.”

Run well—along with the wolves of Sity Park and face days of oiled rain—with cougar’s heart. Watch pageants of brute—human crowds—those both burning rights and torching wrongs—fights both frenzied and short with bursts of peace too short noticed—sun-scarred and dusted with forests’ green summer too—fallen leaves. Bargain old with new—the contentions of earth-speak and necessary sadness—necessity weighted—heavy burdens—too fierce—too varied and multiplied by the conditions of humanities’ weights and survival’s moments and greed.

Through digital secretions—worlds clash—commodities and perilous Capitalism rushes to extinguish itself—greedy—selfish—with bodies purchased and sold on blocks of zero and ones. Fearing the spaces between and shivering within the world electric—less—silence—cannot be purchased economically—by anybody out—there. Either ‘yes or no’ always be the wayward reach of all commodity—unknown—found—consumed and never understood. Doll—painted faces—sold to entice—ninety-nine percent unwanted—received—enjoyed and never knowing the why of knowing why—or—contemplated—inside—unavoidable silence. Spirit speak—imagined twixt a steady fall of snowflakes soft—of silent nights and early dawns—of inside just before birth and spacings just after death…Fall twixt the gentle rain spaced exactly ‘cross this meadow—or the measure of air twixt the dancing—of leaves and fairy’s dust—tossed—sprinkled and forgotten…

We are the daughters and the sons of earth and of the starry heavens. Our history is alive—simple and true—except when suppressed and distorted for unnecessary gains and a perversion called wealth…We are the eternity of spirits—no need beginning and never ending. Such is the sweetness of life. Symmetry with no form except wind and rain and careful storms of chaos and figure. Go figure—the here or the now and still history is not preformed or manufactured except through the controllers—of spins and twists and the thrill of the lie. Or—go figure with the smile of Leonardo or the Lady’s laugh or the chatter of many minds or—just a few—of many hearts. Is it better to flee or better to dig livelihood from the bottom of one’s own grave?

We End…Storm-side fury—then gone…Quick-to-die and always—short to live. Snow— drinking blood. Wind shifting sands—the path always found—footsteps always gone. Come and go—never footsteps just paths beginning and footsteps—gone. Pictures supply—by the pushers— drugs—be free and around every curve something still-stands—still-falls—still-prays—still raptures and always fades. What of spark that travels into the light of—joining life inside and outside the days of pasts’-present’s—future. Behold Spirit Dancer! Do remember—when warmth was without fire and strength absolute without—the Science of dimensions and senses and all was: nonsense-hallucination-superstitious-religious—without name. Before time—wig-waggled across universal spirits—began—‘We-Be’.

‘I will love you until—the wheels finally come off. So! Let us—Ride this train till line ends and then just Jump…OK?’

And! Beautiful you are…

‘I wanna livewith a cinnamon girlI could be happythe rest of my lifeWith a cinnamon girl.

A dreamer of picturesI run in the nightYou see us together,chasing the moonlight,’My cinnamon girl…‘Cinnamon Girl’ written by Neil Young
……………………………Performed by Type O Negative…

“All speech, written or spoken, is a dead language, until it finds a willing and prepared hearer.” ― Robert Louis Stevenson…

—A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
—A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
—A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law—‘Three Laws’—also known as ‘Shelnutt’s Laws’ by…Isaac Asimov

Do humans learn through perception’s ability or is perception an imprinted program already etched onto our brain’s chip? And! Does this ‘perception-of-prefect- imperfection—slow our computer selves? Thinking that ‘I am’ often confounds knowing that ‘We be—DonChaSee?’

Then! Why do we characterize intelligent computation by the appearance of problems requiring solutions? Computers add the number two with another number two and solution four does not make for an intelligent computer…

However— performing symbolic integration of…sin2x e-x…is ooh—aah…intelligent. Yes-No…No-Yes…’0’…’1 ‘ And! ‘While I walk through the valley-of-death-I shall fear no evil’—if only programmed not to fear—though not fearing—would not be intelligent. Oops! Must be another (2) + (2) equals ‘whatever’ programming.

Class problems are classically human programming and machines of survival—‘we be.’ Electric outlet and pin equals shock and artificially ‘we be’ learning—not to place pin in outlet—another lesson that is not intelligent computation, however; survival necessary…’Been-there-Done-that and oops’—we learn something all the ‘live long’ day…

True…’Classes of problems requiring intelligence does include inference based on knowledge.’ Every day—uncertain and incomplete information—varied forms of lessons learned and perception’s twirls and swirls—along with those applications—required to classify—predict and control chaos—often require optimal optimization of Yes—No—and ‘yep that will work—maybe’ and ‘once-in-a-fashion’ we may survive—to ‘Oops’ another day.

Intelligent computation may depend on biological processes and issues to gain solution. Genetic Algorithms and Networks neural—Wowzer. Teach a Robot to compute issues not seeming to be ‘intelligent’ and Artificial Intelligence is created…Let us fashion ‘Law Four’…Robot! Walk not into ‘the valley of death’—because the appearance of ‘US’ planet-wide-carbon-based-squeakers are not for ‘the faint-of-heart’…Be aware and be very-very-afraid…

Ethics are impossible when any form of exchange is possible…
Democracy is great as long as the USA blesses it…

‘The Vagabond’

“Give to me the life I love, Let the lave go by me, Give the jolly heaven above And the byway nigh me. Bed in the bush with stars to see, Bread I dip in the river - There’s the life for a man like me, There’s the life forever.

Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o’er me; Give the face of earth around And the road before me. Wealth I seek not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I seek, the heaven above And the road below me.

Or let autumn fall on me Where afield I linger, Silencing the bird on tree, Biting the blue finger. White as meal the frosty field - Warm the fireside haven - Not to autumn will I yield, Not to winter even!

Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o’er me; Give the face of earth around, And the road before me. Wealth I ask not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I ask, the heaven above And the road below me.” ― Robert Louis Stevenson

What did you do there? – I got highWhat did you feel there? – Well I criedBut why the tears there? – I’ll tell you why – yyyyyIt’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautifulIt’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful

I feel inclined to blow my mindGet hung up, feed the ducks with a bunThey all come out to groove aboutBe nice and have fun in the sun

I’ll tell you what I’ll do – What will you do?I’d like to go there now with youYou can miss out school – Won’t that be coolWhy go to learn the words of fools?

What will we do there? – We’ll get highWhat will we touch there? – We’ll touch the skyBut why the tears there? I’ll tell you whyIt’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautifulIt’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful

I feel inclined to blow my mindGet hung up, feed the ducks with a bunThey all come out to groove aboutBe nice and have fun in the sunIt’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautifulIt’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful”…’Itchycoo Park’—written by Steve Marriott and Ronnie Lane…

Fred Hoyle—the astronomer—once said; “that the act of assembling the simplest living organism from simple molecular ingredients was as unlikely as a tornado whipping through a junkyard and assembling a jumbo jet. Yet somehow it happened.Was it blind luck? And if it somehow happened here, could it happen somewhere else?”

Stephen Crane wrote…’A man said to the universe:’ “Sir I exist” “However,” replied the universe, “The fact has not created in me a sense of obligation.”

The prodigious size and the age of a universe is eternal-speak…Rage and range and contractual—contracts—of contractions—expansions—as endless as day-night and mind-time—rewind—refine—and that sense of rhythm or rhyme…Planets and Stars and Nebulae and Space are creations of countless moments of being—ceasing and again being—for minutes of seconds—or the ever—being of forever hours in times’—mind. Special is this contract—of life’s contractions—expansions—of being—of ending—and of Life’s—purposed—Life’s—meaning or—Lives of just—Living…Now and then—won’t that be cool?

Angels fly in starship to scout where next to stop-land-wait-end-and begin again-begin. In star-ships the folds of space shortens the distance between star-light and star-bright and the day of night. In starship—galaxy edge and galaxy center matters only to the standing one at waters’ edge on planet-fall. Small is a matter of size and nothing less than sky-lights and heaven’s length. We dance Universe…you and I—hand-to-hand-shoulder-touched-lips-to-eyes and never tears. Eternal Spirits cannot cry and never Universes’ end and we—Spirit—and—Spirits never die. Robot once—then again and again and… Now and then—won’t that be cool?

But Love! Is the spirit of heart and soul—does not require name or title or reason or permission or through the grace of… No! Things called government nor religious-named or senate or congress or court or king or country has right or reason to legislate or forbid the strength of Love between anyone…And! Stop the builders of weapons! Too late? For—sword grow as shield grows—as bomb-to-drone-to—the shrieks of madness—drown-too—silence the gentle swish and swoon of love and touch and care and taste and the sweetness of dove’s morning cry and the living sound of baby cries and gurgles and… Now or then—won’t that be cool?

Plague—begins and ends as folks—end and begin…Robot death or death of substrate or the walkers that carry—Eternal Spirits at—Spirit—pass—a world or ten or a thousand places ‘cross— birthing—universes. Warmed—to the form of you and me—the us and them of this—here and this—now. And! Time is damned—except by those tellers—of time and those singers of timed songs. When futures’ laugh…Moments—span the days of—does not matter minutes and dances twirling into relief… Now or then—won’t that be cool?

Instead—let us again—dance across these universe—as we wish to dance. We—you and I—and spirit-dance—when the flesh of non-interchangeability sheds substances and gains sustenance. Life spark-sparkles forever–then lends light to darkness—knowing this—is good—is sweet. Now or then—won’t that be cool?

“Trust I seek and I find in youEvery day for us something newOpen mind for a different viewAnd nothing else matters…” from ‘Nothing Else Matters’ by James Hetfield, Lars Ulrich, and Kirk Hammett of Metallica.

We are Children of the same Verses of these Universes—We have the Right-to-be-Everywhere… Now and then—won’t that be cool?

“The black bull bellowed before the sea.The sea, till that day orderly,Hove up against Bendylaw.

The queen in the mulberry arbor staredStiff as a queen on a playing card.The king fingered his beard.

A blue sea, four horny bull-feet,A bull-snouted sea that wouldn’t stay put,Bucked at the garden gate.

Along box-lined walks in the florid sunToward the rowdy bellow and back againThe lords and ladies ran.

The great bronze gate began to crack,The sea broke in at every crack,Pellmell, blueblack.

The bull surged up, the bull surged down,Not to be stayed by a daisy chainNor by any learned man.

O the king’s tidy acre is under the sea,And the royal rose in the bull’s belly,And the bull on the king’s highway…” by Sylvia Plath

Saturn’s spin and around that swirl—twirls a large third and the seventeenth moon ‘Earth-side’ calls “Iapetus.” A Titan of Greek-Speak and Uranus’s Son—and father of Prometheus—survivor or—an ancestor of the Race of Humanity—once Mothered by one—and Fathered by—you pick this one. The shine of Moon—Iapetus—is also one-third circled—by a rim of twelve high miles— from surface and into sky…Hesiod once described a threshold of bronze—night of dark cloud wrap—‘where Night and Day draw near and greet one another as they pass the great threshold of bronze and there the Children of Dark have their dwellings.’ On New Year’s Eve—as the year of 2005 waited for a blessed replacement—NASA’s Cassini spacecraft—photographed an—eight hundred and eight mile long by twelve mile high rim on Iapetus—and Hesiod—smiles.

Twilight and Dawn departure and gates to swirl through—go-to-spaces—between places—both here or there or again back to another here—to fear—to find—to die or to live again—in places without time-signs in parts—or sums to hold again…Ecliptic twirl and galaxy cross—spaces when composite—forms appear-to-disappear—Serpent speak and Eagle reach—Ophiuchus—holder—or bold—once again— Quetzalcoatl boys and fair Gaia girls—wander star-gates through—and touch-find—found reaches—useless rhythms and trouble—times. Or— Ophiuchus high— stands above sun—rises—feet crossed—Galactic wider and planetary—substance filled from brim-to-rim and back-again…

Star-Gate Jesus—dates to twirl and galactic whirl—shapes-to-shift and age-to-bend—zygote-to-grave and back-again…And! Always Spirits—find this time—the twine-rewind—to rock—to roll—to touch—to love—and give up—gained-remained—differently renewed or altered—remained and be again the same or once and twice and—other…Saviors’ seek and ashes heap—wars of thought—too bloodied—fought—still write-righted—incorrect—then reject and still—the will of few ‘gainst wills of blood-spills and always—just because—the walls of Star-Gates—fold and begins another—one-to-come-to-go and arrive—again.

“I’m a princess cut from marble, smoother than a storm.And the scars that mark my body, they’re silver and gold,My blood is a flood of rubies, precious stones,It keeps my veins hot, the fires found a home in me.I move through town, I’m quiet like a fire,And my necklace is of rope, I tie it and untie it.

And our people talk to me, but nothing ever hits homePeople talk to me, and all the voices just burn holes.I’m going in (ooh)

[Chorus:]This is the start of how it all ever endsThey used to shout my name, now they whisper itI’m speeding up and this is the red, orange, yellow flicker beat sparking up my heartWe rip the start, the colors disappearI never watch the stars, there’s so much down hereSo I just try to keep up with them red, orange, yellow flicker beat sparking up my heart

I dream all year, but they’re not the same kindsAnd the shivers move down my shoulder blades in double time

And now people talk to me, I’m slipping out of reach nowPeople talk to me, and all their faces blurBut I got my fingers laced together and I made a little prisonAnd I’m locking up everyone who ever laid a finger on meI’m going in (ooh)

[Chorus]

And this is the red, orange, yellow flicker beatSparking up my heartAnd this is the red, orange, yellow flicker beat-beat-beat-beat…” ’Yellow Flicker Beat’ written by Ella Yelich-O’ Connor and Joel Little

Revolting around Revolution? ‘Plant your flag on—truth…’ Science eternally dances with superstition…Once and often either—momentarily wins something-of-else or another choice-to-follow…Crossroads to matter—chances to spark—and destiny always flirts with other up-and-about—perhaps…Real Sea—we’ll see—and another and another—of water-ships and places far away…This is here and between landings another beach—reach and as quickly discovered then thrown away…Dragging the lines of surf’s fall and rise—as waves dash high into moonless sky and crash along miles of sand and shoreline. Sea inhale and exhale and breathe again and time marks nothing—when endless and everlasting.

The structures of language—cause subtle or severe alterations in conceptual visions of context—pretense—rapture—tense and always scattered across a multitude of speakers—defined—refined and confined to unspoken sentences—still known—with no required explanation—and often not wanted. Linguistic challenges may confuse—process notions—preconceive programming—patterns of similarity—welcomed-rejected-detected-embraced or ignored…Survival’s portion—portioned and scattered across understanding simplicity—and the variances in relativity—either linguistically determined—or silenced by rain—loud—gentle beginnings or the whispers of fire-fly wings and lighting…Wait! Eyes—tightly closed—to hear thunder—rolling across separated skies—as unseen flashes—knight the ocean—and crashes boom into the silent space—between raindrops and life…

The distinctions—either unreal or real or may-have-been or yet-to-come—sometimes live without explanation or sane reason—will power or triumphant chance—and still by some mischief of happenstance—occurs—reserves—replaces and in-time—stumble-bumbles into never-was and never-will-be—again…Linguistic challenges—choice and time—oh my! And! Still we refine-the-define—providing to our senses—the words we speak and the world we seek—differentials in place—because the space between us is—mile-wide-empty or mile-wide-distracted—reacted—contracted or ‘just because’ of causes affected— and explanations.

The relativity of linguistic principles may—too often influence and warp the processes—through how—we know-what-we-know-we-now-know—or almost future—know-what we almost-may understand—sometime—in some-place-in-space—somewhere-in-time…And! Does language determine how we think—or does how we think—determine how we speak? Do-Does-Maybe-Almost-OK? All fits—all places—mostly—almost right-writing and writing-right either incorrectly or almost-always finding fit—too and almost—never-quite-writing-right-correctly…Non-linguistic behavior is sometimes an extraordinary type of behavior—donchathink?

“We took the blood of the earth and fell in love with death with life itself as an excuse Black is the sunlight shimmering below; it flows through life and the guilt we share We’re hiding in chorus as starry eyes close, and seasons part in farewell; ‘cause we drained her blood, then forgetting her face to hide from everyone”…from ‘The Last Hour of Ancient Sunlight’ by Draconian

Walked to once war—places—of warrior kill and spill of red along the sandy streams of green spaces—dreamed graces and where man—gun—marches—of rustle and rice mix—water—man—gun—to run—to stay and wait for the standing dream-scenes—plays and dances of red colors and life runes—places in ruins along sandy streams—of greener spaces—dreaming graces—places found and now not remembered—OK…We cannot kill a man’s family and expect forgiveness. Come by drone—by rifle—by bomb—by war or proxy—no one can forgive another for the murder of his own blood…Family by family—street-by-street—village—town—city—region—no matter and absolutely—no forgiveness. ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

Planets of beginning’s end, and flashes within war clouds on high and on lighted skies for a trillion miles across the sky. The Alpha and the Omega—where Titans rule Atlantis—and—men of great—remove or rule places in time—now gone and a history of never was—on both the Earth and in the sky. We are—before Floods and long before parts of Genesis—that sometime happened—on—sometime worlds or other spaces—of other places and other times. Our Garden of Eden—not Sins—and then—tossed off-world? Eden could—have been better than ruining—by—T-Rex or consumed—by stronger uprights. Eden and sin and serpents, oh my! We are the proof of far removed parents—when gods may have ruled and created women and men—in places from Sirius to Mars to Earth and back—again? Our rulers and our ruled and our voices and our religions have rewritten our beginnings—in so many places and in so many—might have been accidents—that—these truths or fictions—have blurred the start of lost and the loss of—start. And! Still—the rest is yet to come—why not? ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

This garden is hilltop high—we come here—almost twice—to plant flowers and remember sometime—with our voices. Tree lined field already picked and plowed of life—crosses—path as—resting—inside good woods as we look down—toward cattle and fence and trees and fields and a creek bed dry—except for trickles of water caught by pools and deposited by rains covering this hill and that valley just last evening. ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

These—everyday—fail to notion-grasp the chance—of peaceful notion—depending on how-where you be—when flash streak—smoke reek—eye burn—tear and fear and the warp of notions—peace cease—little ones die before—killer memories evolve—into sweet substance and light bright smiles. Just bump-bangs away or a simple sail—set-to-wind—rail balance—‘neath ruin— bridges of seven—or on—another land-fall beneath another sky—homes to build—caves to clean—and again for a short while—arrival—life comes home. Better—than missile speak or places too far gone to seek bomb shelter—chance for another—another dance before smoking tears or tomorrow-sorrow—death—peace—good life—ways forgotten—gone. ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

“The circle safely closed—the web building starts—the markers of builders old and builders new. Star Guide—folded into original shape— until it is—again required and opened to read and follow—‘cross sky-bridge….Bang-Bang-Bang and let the game begin—again…‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this Time—this Twine—Re-wind. Again to be—to see…of loving the loving…of hands joined-to-body moving…of swings and wings and…Spirit-singing and peaceful sighing…Creation—the Witch smile and for this instant within a moment of Time—‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this time—this Twine Re-wind.” ‘While I breathe—I Hope…’